


you’re such a phenomenon

by Its_me_Michael (orphan_account)



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 15:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21101564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Its_me_Michael
Summary: Ack don’t read this





	you’re such a phenomenon

Whenever someone asked Logan a question, Logan responded, as best he could.

No one could understand, no matter how he tried to say it, for seventeen years.

“How are you feeling?” They’d ask.

“Solanum lycopersicum.” The first twelve years of his life, words usually just fell out of his mouth. He’d unconsciously associate the scientific name with happiness, which was the reason he spoke it.

_I am okay. I am happy. I am calm._

They’d watch him in confusion. 

He’d shake his head and say it again. “Solanum lycopersicum.”

Happy. Calm.

They’d say the question again, more insistently, and Logan would say the answer again. 

They never seemed to get it. 

He’d have to repeat it, over and over, seven times. Eight times. Nine times. Ten. The calm in his voice would often fade into anger, then desperation, like a child begging to be heard.

_Please listen._

Their confusion would turn into concern. “I don’t know what that means,” they’d say, shaking their heads. “Can you use different words? I don’t understand right now.” A smile might form on their lips, understanding and sweet. They were ready to listen to Logan. No judgement, no jokes, no hate. Right?

_Wrong_.

They couldn’t understand. They couldn’t hear him.

_No one_ could hear him.

The realization would usually lodge somewhere in Logan’s throat. 

If they both spoke English, why didn’t they know what he was saying?

They weren’t going to understand. It wasn’t going to change.

He’d shake his head, his eyes flicking to the ground. “No,” he’d say under his breath, frustrated, and they’d hear. They’d startle at the admission, concern morphing into determination. They were determined to figure out what was wrong with him. 

But it wasn’t possible if they didn’t know what he was saying. They needed a mediator, a translator, someone to decipher Logan’s words and convey it to open ears.

That’s when Thomas, Logan’s brother, started coming with him.

Thomas understood Logan.

He was the only one.

And at first, it seemed that they made progress. The therapists were all more helpful than before.

But then there was the _incident_.

Logan had been switching professionals since.

None of them had been a good fit.

“Ready, Lo?” 

Logan looked up from his Rubik’s cube, meeting his brother’s eyes. He blinked, momentarily distracted from the puzzle beneath his hands. His fingers didn’t pause, though, continuing to fidget with the speed cube.

“No.” He shook his head. His eyes returned to the cube. He’d seen this pattern before. He continued to work on the puzzle, only pausing to push his glasses further up his nose.

Thomas sighed, shaking his head. A small smile graced his features. “Almost ready?” he prompted.

“Yes,” Logan said, without looking up. His eyes narrowed in concentration. He was close to finishing.

“Alright,” Thomas said, grinning. He stood up, his hand gently resting on Logan’s shoulder. Logan absently registered the feeling of standing up at the contact.

A few more twists and the cube was solved, for sure.

Logan paid no attention to the gentle fingers on his forearm. He allowed the hand to lead him away from the waiting room and into another room.

The hand led him to a couch, and Logan sat down.

“I’m finished,” he said, holding up the completed Rubik’s cube. He blinked as he realized he was no longer in the waiting room, and looked around to assess the change of scenery. 

The room was cozy and warm, almost unrealistically so.

Thomas was still with him, but now sat next to him instead of across from him. There were white walls and soft carpet flooring. Toys and posters were arranged haphazardly everywhere. A Finding Dory poster here, three Batman action figures there. Sixty-seven Pokémon cards littered the floor, twenty-six facing up, and forty-one facing down. It looked like a room that recently had held several small children.

The sofa he sat on was a warm brown, and there was a table a few feet in front of him. A basket of thirteen round pastries sat on the table, filling the room with the smell of baked goods. It reminded him of the bakery downtown.

Logan relaxed, handing the cube to Thomas. “Ruin it, please,” he said to his brother, under his breath. Thomas smiled and nodded.

“Sure, Lo,” he whispered, winking.

Logan looked at the table again. Beyond it was a small, unoccupied stool. He stared at it, letting his mind wander.

Who was coming in today? Would they be able to tell him what was wrong with him? Logan laced his fingers together in response to the anticipation beginning to weigh on his chest. 

Could they fix him?

“Lo,” Thomas said. Logan jerked up, looking at his brother. “Do you want a pastry?” He said, smiling at Logan. Logan watched his brother’s eyes. He remembered reading a lot of books analyzing emotion shown in people’s eyes. It had information on how to figure out if someone was lying, or if they were sad, or tired, or annoyed.

“Yes.”

Eyes were hard to read.

Thomas’s eyes looked like eyes. But they also looked happy.

Logan could read Thomas’s eyes.

He watched his brother closely as he picked up a pastry and gave it to Logan. The bespectacled boy accepted the pastry from his brother.

The pastry was warm, and as Logan lifted it to his lips, the door creaked loudly. He flinched at the noise, hurriedly placing the pastry back in the basket as the door opened. “Hello,” he said to no one in particular, setting his hands in his lap and sinking back into the couch. 

“Oh!” A man slipped into the room. He wore a beige sweater and loose jeans. Behind thick-rimmed glasses, his bright burgundy eyes seemed to sparkle, with vibrant magenta hair to match.

He looked like a child’s therapist, not a professional psychiatrist. 

“New patients!” He grinned giddily, as if therapy was the highlight of his day. Hopping over to the stool behind the table and sitting on it, he beamed and set his elbows on the table. “Do you, how do?”

_What?_

Do you how—

Oh. 

How do you do. That’s what he was asking.

“Solanum lycopersicum,” Logan mumbled. He looked around the room. Anywhere but this new man, who wanted to squeeze the secrets out of him, only to decide he was crazy…

Calm, for now.

Thomas rushed to translate. “He means—”

“Ah! Of course! Logan,” the man said, “it’s lovely to meet you! I’m Doctor Picani!” He pulled a notepad out of nowhere and wrote something down. “And you must be Thomas!” He smiled at Logan’s brother, who nodded. “It’s lovely to meet both of you. Although I don’t think I’ll need a translation, I’ve worked with plenty of kids like this.” He gestured to Logan.

_Kids like what?_

“Oh— okay. I’ll just…” Thomas blinked, surprised. “I’ll just go, then.” He stood up and looked at Logan. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yes,” Logan said slowly.

I hope so.

Kids like _what…?_

He didn’t protest as he watched Thomas leave the room. “I’ll be back,” he promised.

_Is this bad?_

He’d known Thomas might leave him alone with the psychiatrist.

What if Thomas didn’t come back?

That was unlikely. Thomas had shown signs of planning to come back, like his promise. Also, he’d taken the Rubik’s cube with him. Logan’s Rubik’s cube. He had to come back to return it. And he was pretty sure Thomas thought of him as a companion, or at least someone worth caring for.

But it didn’t help that he’d left Logan _all alone—_

“Well! What a wonderful young man,” Picani sighed, interrupting Logan’s stream of thoughts. “Reminds me of my son.” He smiled, then turned back to his patient. “Now, tell me,” he said to Logan, “do you like tomatoes?”

Logan blinked.

_What?_

Tomatoes?

“Yes,” he said hesitantly. “I do like tomatoes.”

How was that relevant?

“Wonderful!” Dr. Picani jotted down something in his notebook. “Now tell me, what brings you here?” He looked up, smiling, understanding and sweet. He was ready to listen to Logan. 

No judgement, no jokes. 

No hate.

Right?

..._right?_

“I want…” Logan trailed off. What did he want?

He wanted to know what was wrong with himself, right?

He started with that.

“Well,” Dr. Picani said, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully, “there’s nothing wrong with you, you were just born different! I have a bit of an idea already, but that doesn’t mean I’m right! Some of us just have different circumstances, that’s all!” He smiled again. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself?”

“Okay…”

Logan, at seventeen years old, was tall, at least five foot ten inches, with large glasses over his icy blue eyes. 

He doubted that was the information Dr. Picani wanted, though, since he could tell that by looking at him.

“I… I live with my father and brother,” he said slowly. “I’m in high school. I read a significant amount, but if the work is fiction, I tend to read mysteries.” What else was there? Logan was boring. He didn’t have a substantial quantity of information to satisfy Dr. Picani. Scowling, he stared at his hands, wishing for something to touch.

“Do you not want to talk?” Dr. Picani asked gently. His voice was soft, as if Logan were something fragile and speaking too loudly might break him.

_I’m not fragile_.

“I don’t know what I should talk about,” Logan said, allowing his frustration to slip into his voice. He pulled off his glasses and fidgeted with them, rubbing the earpieces.

_This was a bad idea. I was right._

“Do you want to do something else?” 

There was that quiet, understanding voice Logan had heard one hundred thirty-two times. One hundred thirty-three.

This was the second time it had sounded genuine.

“Yes,” Logan said, nodding. He placed his glasses back on his face. “Please.”

“Of course,” Dr. Picani said. He stood up and walked over to a chest of drawers. Opening one, he dug around it for a moment. Logan heard a quiet “Aha!” when he found what he was looking for. Picani returned to the table separating patient from psychiatrist. “I’ve got something for you to fill out.” He handed Logan a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen. “If anything makes you uncomfortable, just leave it blank. If you don’t want to write things down, just tell me, ‘I don’t like this’ and you can do something else.” He picked up his notepad, which Logan had forced himself not to read, and wrote something down.

Logan looked at the sheet of paper he’d been given, setting it on the table. There were twenty-five questions on it, with four boxes for all but the first.

Multiple choice?

“Is it a test?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at the questions on the page.

“Sort of,” Dr. Picani said. He shrugged. “It’s not perfect, but it gives me a bit of insight on who you are.” He smiled. “Go on.”

Logan looked at the first question.

_I am a seventeen year old male, and my name is Logan Rae Summers, he wrote._

_I prefer to do things alone._

_I frequently get strongly absorbed in one thing._

“Logan…”

_I often notice small sounds when others do not._

_I _ _often_ _ notice details that others do not._

_I would rather go to a library than to a party._

_When I’m reading a story, I find it difficult to work out the characters’ intentions._

“Logan.”

_I don’t particularly enjoy reading fiction._

_I do notice patterns in things all the time._

_I find it hard to make new friends…_

“Logan?”

_It does upset me if my daily routine is disturbed._

_I frequently find that I don’t know how to keep a conversation going._

_I am often the last to understand the point of a joke._

_I find it difficult to imagine what it would be like to be someone else._

_I always try to carefully plan any activities I participate in._

Obviously… didn’t everyone?

“Logan.”

_Other people _____ tell me that what I’ve said is impolite, even though I think it is polite…_

  1. _Never_

  2. _Rarely _

  3. _Sometimes_

  4. _Frequently_

Polite?

That one didn’t make sense.

Most people didn’t comment on his politeness— Logan knew he was polite.

They did comment on his lack of expression, though…

_Does that count?_

He pondered over it for a considerable amount of time.

… 

Yes?

No?

He left it blank.

_I find myself drawn more strongly to objects than to people._

_When I talk, it isn’t always easy for others to get a word in edgewise._

_I find it somewhat difficult to ‘read between the lines’ when someone is talking to me at times._

_I don’t always know how to tell if someone listening to me is getting bored…_

_People occasionally tell me that I keep going on and on about the same thing._

“Logan!”

Logan flinched, his eyes flicking upwards to find the source of the noise. Dr. Picani was watching him, vague interest and concern all over his face. He held his phone in one hand and his pencil in the other, writing something else down.

“I’m not finished,” Logan said to the doctor, clicking his own writing utensil.

“That’s okay, Logan. You can finish.” Dr. Picani’s eyes flicked towards the door even as he smiled. “My son is going to be over here in a few minutes, that’s all. Is that okay with you?” His gaze returned to Logan. 

What an informal man. What kind of professional let his own son into his office during a session?

_This was a bad idea. I was right._

Well…

Logan already knew he was crazy. This only cemented his theory.

“How many minutes?” he asked, looking back on the paper. He still had four questions left… 

“He’ll be here in about five.”

“Okay.” He’d be here after Logan finished with the questionnaire. “I don’t have an opinion on your son coming in here after I finish this.”

_I prefer to do things the same way all the time._

“Are you sure, Logan? I can tell him to wait.” He sighed. “I didn’t expect the session to go over scheduled time.”

_I occasionally notice small sounds when others do not._

_In a social group, it is—_

Logan looked up.

“What?”

Over scheduled time?

“Yeah,” Dr. Picani said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “But Thomas texted me to tell me he’s stuck in traffic, and I don’t have a problem with spending time with you.” He smiled. “I have a feeling we’re going to get along pretty well, Logan.”

This crazy, disorganized man thinks we’re going to get along after not telling me time was up? How irrational.

Logan groaned quietly. “I doubt it,” he muttered.

His schedule was all messed up, he was supposed to go home and cook and he wasn’t going to _finish_ in time, _he was right, this was a bad idea—_

“You’d be surprised.”

Oh. 

He’d heard that.

“I think we’ll be okay, Logan,” Dr. Picani said, sending a full force smile at Logan.

A moment passed, and neither of them spoke.

Logan looked back to his paper, in hopes of being distracted from the awkward silence between them.

_In a social group, it is difficult to follow multiple conversations._

_I have ____ been told to be tested for autism or Asperger’s by my peers or family._

  1. _Never_

  2. _Once_

  3. _Often_

  4. _I don’t know what that means._

Logan considered the question.

He definitely knew what autism was— a disorder affecting the nervous system that impaired the ability to communicate and interact. Blah blah blah.

Others around him had made their fair share of autism jokes around him, but they never told him outright he needed to be tested. 

_“Look!” his classmates cried, laughing. “It’s the autist!”_

_Logan stumbled over someone’s leg, spilling his books and papers everywhere in the hallway where they were then trampled and dirtied. Frustration prickled in his throat and his eyes stung._

_What the hell?_

His father, whenever asked about Logan, insisted there was nothing wrong with him. 

_“Is everything alright at home, Mr. Summers?” The school counselor watched Logan’s father, searching for something. For what, she didn’t know._

_“Are you implying there’s something wrong with my son?” Logan’s father placed his hand on Logan’s shoulder, causing him to flinch at the sudden contact. His voice was defensive, angry, and Logan’s reaction to his touch didn’t do much to alleviate her suspicions._

Thomas hadn’t ever explicitly said the words autism or Asperger’s. He’d only suggested therapy and a psych evaluation. 

_“Do you want to go?” Thomas asked, watching Logan carefully for a reaction._

_“I…” Logan blinked. “I think so.”_

_“Okay. Then I’ll arrange a meeting.” He smiled at Logan, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t tell Dad, okay?”_

_“Okay…”_

He’d never been told to be tested.

_I have never been told to be tested for autism or Asperger’s by my peers or family._

“I’m finished,” he said, handing the paper to Dr. Picani. The psychiatrist accepted it and walked over to the chest, placing it in the third drawer from the bottom. Returning to the table, he sat on the couch next to Logan instead of the stool on the other side of the table.

“What are you doing?” Logan asked, watching him suspiciously, but he didn’t move. He noticed that despite the fact that Picani was haphazard and disorganized, he still made sure to stay at least two feet away from Logan, to ensure comfort. He felt slightly calmer with this realization. Dr. Picani would probably not do anything that made him very uncomfortable.

_Is this okay? Was I right in being skeptical? _

“I’m all worn out,” Picani said after a second, as if speaking to an old friend instead of a patient he barely knew. “You’re my last patient of the day. I’ve had appointments back-to-back since ten.” He sighed, removing his glasses and staring at the ceiling with bright purple eyes. 

They stayed like that, silent, for a while. It was comfortable, and Logan was almost disappointed when he heard a quiet knock on the door.

Thomas.

Logan stood, his lips quirking upwards. “Come in,” he called. A small spark of excitement flickered in his chest. Thomas was back. He returned just like he promised. Logan’s Rubik’s cube must be horribly ruined by now. He’d be able to fix it again. And they could _go home—_

The excitement swelled, and Logan could not prevent a small smile from forming on his face.

The door opened.

“Hey…?” 

Logan’s excitement turned to shock. The smile fell from his face, exchanged for a look of surprise. Betrayal prickled in his throat.

The person who opened the door was not Thomas.

_This was a bad idea I was right THIS IS BAD—_

He was younger, maybe sixteen or seventeen, and shorter, as well. He had large, baby blue eyes hiding behind large glasses— _Logan’s glasses_— with a blue polo to match. Freckles littered his face and arms, and Logan tried to count them all. At least four hundred were visible, but he certainly had more—

He smiled at Logan, and Logan twitched. _Stay still so I can count your freckles._

At his movement, the other person blinked, surprised. “Hi,” he said, the smile widening. He took a step towards the couch and Logan. “It’s nice to meet you! I’m—”

“Stop moving.” 

The words left Logan’s mouth before he could reign himself in. Five hundred sixty-eight, five hundred sixty-nine, five hundred seventy…

The boy turned his head back towards Logan, confused. His smile dimmed, confused and slightly unnerved by the other boy’s intense stare. “What? Is something—”

“No!” He burst out. The boy flinched away, but held still after that. Gritting his teeth, Logan continued to count. Luckily, the boy hadn’t moved too much, and he hadn’t forgotten which ones he counted. Five hundred ninety, five hundred ninety-one…

The boy’s eyes flicked towards the psychiatrist. “Is he okay?” he whispered to Picani, alarmed. 

Picani nodded, amused. He picked up his glasses and cleared his throat, placing them back on his face. “Logan,” he said cheerily. “Listen to me, okay?” Logan didn’t respond. He went on, ignoring the possibility that he may not listen. “This is my son, Patton.” Still no response. “He’s... five feet and eight inches tall.” 

Patton turned to look at his father, watching him as if he were crazy. Maybe he was— he had no idea if this would work. “He is seventeen years, eight months, and twenty days old,” he ad-libbed, hoping it was accurate. “He likes cartoons— he’s watched, oh, I don’t know,” he struggled to come up with a number. “One hundred and five.”

Logan blinked. He turned to look over at the doctor. “One hundred and five?” he repeated softly. “Exactly?”

“Yeah,” Picani said. He discreetly motioned for Patton to sit next to him. His son saw the gesture and scrambled over to the couch. He sat next to his father, and Picani could feel that he was tense. Logan must have scared him.

But Logan was now looking at the psychiatrist. “I wasn’t finished,” he said, looking frustrated. 

“Well, that’s alright,” Picani said, relieved. “Come sit.” He patted the spot on the sofa on his left side, the opposite side of where Patton sat. Letting out a noise of exasperation, Logan walked over and sat next to the psychiatrist, who offered him a smile. “Now, what is bothering you?”

Logan met his gaze with dissatisfied blue eyes. “You didn’t let me finish counting,” he said, glaring at him. His eyes flicked over to Patton, who leaned away from him in hopes of avoiding his probing gaze. This didn’t deter Logan, though. He stared at Patton, his eyes becoming calm as he watched the other boy. However, after a few minutes had passed, he grimaced, clearly unhappy.

Patton tried to keep calm at first, a shaky smile forming on his face. But to Picani, it was obvious he was uneasy. Logan huffed, frustrated by the movement, and Patton froze. He tensed behind his father, expecting an outburst.

To be fair, Logan looked like he was close to one. His eyes had gone from calm to thoroughly irritated. His hands clenched into fists as he stood up. Patton noticed this and leaned away farther, as far as he could without seeming impolite.

“Excuse me?” Patton asked quietly. “Are you alr—”

Logan’s hand shot out and grabbed Patton’s arm, shoving his sleeve up to his shoulder and thoroughly unnerving the man in his grip. Patton shrieked and jerked away, jumping off the couch and bolting to the other side of the room. He cowered there in the corner, his gaze watery. “What did I ever do?” he wailed, shivering. “I’m sorry!”

Logan was also trembling. “Stop moving!” he shouted, slamming his hands on the table. His hands curled into fists as Patton started to cry.

Picani sighed, closing his eyes. “Logan,” he said, not unkindly.

“What?” Logan sounded upset. He didn’t turn towards the psychiatrist, though.

“Come and sit.” He patted the cushion to his left again. He could see that Logan was trying to calm himself. 

“No.” Logan shook his head. 

“Your brother will be here soon to pick you up,” Picani said softly. “Come and sit.”

Logan’s clenched jaw relaxed the mention of Thomas, and his breathing slowed. “He’ll be here soon,” he repeated.

“That’s right,” Picani said, “Thomas will pick you up soon.”

Silence.

Patton didn’t dare move from the corner. Picani waited, patiently, for a response from the taller teenager.

They waited, and then...

“He can’t lift me, though.” 

_What?_

“Huh?” 

“He can’t lift me,” Logan repeated, turning around. He sounded confused. “So, that’s not possible.”

What?

A joke?

no... 

_He seriously misinterpreted me?_

Picani tried and failed to hold in his laughter. 

_He can’t lift him… _

He slapped his hands over his mouth, but it didn’t prevent the feeling bubbling up and out of him. 

Patton started to cry harder.

Logan’s bewilderment was only amplified by this reaction. He blinked at the laughing doctor and the crying boy, frowning. 

_So many feelings…_

_The bane of my existence._

He hadn’t said anything funny, had he?

He watched them both, lost, until the laughter and whimpering died down. Patton still didn’t move from his corner. He sniffled and hiccuped, small giggles breaking through his sobs. Picani reeled himself in enough to pat the cushion next to him again.

Logan sighed and walked over to Dr. Picani, sitting beside him.

“Now, Logan,” the psychiatrist said, closing his eyes again. “Do you like it when you’re spontaneously touched?” He smiled again, biting his lip.

“No.” Of course not. He hated being touched.

“The why would Patton like it?” He opened one eye to gauge his patient’s reaction.

Logan was silent, his brow furrowed as he tried to compute. “He… wouldn’t,” he said, his eyes flicking over to the boy in question. 

“That’s right,” Dr. Picani said encouragingly. “Do you think you scared him?”

Logan chewed on his lip, refusing to look at the doctor. “Yes,” he said, sounding defeated.

“Great!” Picani said. “Now, he’s scared. Is there any way to fix that?” he prompted, raising an eyebrow.

Patton made a noise of protest, but didn’t make any complaints.

“I…” Logan sighed. “I could apologize,” he said.

“That’s a great start!” Picani said, beaming at him. “Go on.” He gestured toward the corner where Patton was.

Logan huffed, but stood up and walked over to Patton, who’d long since stopped crying. “I apologize for scaring you,” he said in a monotone.

Patton gave him an unsure, watery smile. “Thanks, kiddo,” he said. He didn’t look convinced. Oh, well. They could work on Logan’s apologies. Maybe he should have Logan spend time with Patton to improve interactions with strangers… 

A knock sounded at the door. Logan perked up, watching the door. It opened to show a disgruntled Thomas, and he clasped his hands together, excited. “Thomas,” he said, a smile tugging on his lips.

“Yep, that’s me,” Thomas sighed, running a hand through his hair. He smiled tiredly at his younger brother. “Ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” Logan said, the smile widening. 

Thomas turned to Dr. Picani. “I am so sorry, and thank you so much,” he said. “I didn’t think it’d be such a nightmare getting back here.” He looked at Logan, who was tugging on his hand like a small child. “Thank you so much for dealing with us.” He offered the psychiatrist a smile.

“Oh, it’s nothing!” Picani grinned at Thomas. He removed his glasses. “It was a pleasure.” For the most part, anyway.

Patton squeaked from the corner, and all three pairs of eyes were suddenly fixed on him. His eyes widened, and he hastily stood up, brushing imaginary dust off of him. He gave Thomas a smile, as an unsuccessful attempt to distract him from his red, puffy eyes.

Thomas’s gaze filled with the _oh no_ look and he turned back to Dr. Picani. “What happened?” he groaned, as if he didn’t want to know. Which he didn’t, really. 

Picani smiled. “Nothing of importance,” he said. “It was resolved.” A scoff was heard, and whether from Patton or Logan, it didn’t alleviate Thomas’s fears.

“Okay,” he said skeptically.

“Can I have my cube back?” Logan asked, pulling on his brother’s hands. “Please?”

Thomas smiled fondly at his younger brother. “Sure,” he said. “It’s in the car.” Logan nodded and left the room. Thomas turned to the doctor once more. “I really can’t thank you enough,” he said.

“Just bring him back,” Picani responded, grinning.

“Of course.”

And he was gone.

Patton walked over to his father, sitting on the couch beside him. “He’s scary,” he whispered.

“No,” Picani said. “Far from it. He’s just awkward.” He clasped his hands together. “A development disorder, I think.” He sighed. “Only time will tell.”

What an interesting patient!

“Okay,” Patton mumbled, not bothering to hide his disbelief.

“How would you feel about spending more time with him?”


End file.
